


Justice is Hard

by Andropunk



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-03-10 19:24:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3300797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andropunk/pseuds/Andropunk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Fenris receives a letter from Prince Sebastian Vael, he is tasked with traveling to Ferelden to track down the apostate Anders, so that he might face execution in Starkhaven. However, once the red lyrium starts to affect Fenris's markings, Anders offers to help keep the madness at bay - At the price of his freedom. Now Fenris is faced with the choice of saving himself or staying true to his values and agreement with Sebastian. M/M, Fenders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Prologue time! 
> 
> Not much to say on this chapter... Prologues are always slow, but I tried to make it interesting.

There had been no shortage of work for Fenris. After the uprising of the circles, more and more refugees took to the roads, making themselves prime pray for bandits, thieves and worse. The elf was gaining a reputation, at least in the Free Marches, with having put down seven organized guilds, and thirteen rag-tag groups. The elf had lost track of the date, such things mattered little. He knew it to have been at least two years since Kirkwall's uprising, perhaps three, and it had been just as long since he had seen his friends from such a time, or his enemies.

He was in familiar territory, however. A village, named after some insignificant local hero or another, that rested just at the border of Starkhaven's city state. It wasn't a wealthy settlement, but not an incredibly poor one, either. For every belly there was ample food and a bed, which was all Fenris truly needed.

His horse, or pony would be the more accurate term, snorted as they approached the inn. The elf could feel the steed flexing, walking with his head higher and not quite looking where he was going, "Fasta vaas," he grunted, clicking his tongue and pressing his heels into the beast's side, as to urge him forward.

He knew exactly why the steed was strutting. The children of the village never failed to gather upon seeing the luminous elf's approach. He despised the attention, though his beast of burden was quite the opposite, enjoying the apples and treats the children would bring for the hero's mount, "Learn some humility," he would mutter, getting a snort in reply.

As for the children, Fenris would not look at them. Rather, he pulled his hood up, a feeble attempt to shield him from their gawking and cheers. The voices were high-pitched, whining, pleading with their mothers to let them get close. At times, he was grateful for the fact that lyrium markings tended to scare a vast majority of responsible parents. They were generally kept within arm's reach of their parents, but it didn't stop the questions.

Maker, the questions. Who did you save? Have you been to Antiva? Did you bring me anything? Was there a dog? Were they ugly?

They were never worthwhile inquiries, nothing about how to defend themselves from the magic, how close they were, or signs to look for if they saw a slaver in the market. It was as if the children wanted to be kidnapped.

Dropping from his stallion, he began walking her to the stables, handing her reins, along with a small sack of silver coins, to the stable boy. He tipped too much, he knew he did, though he had little use for money. That, and the lad was too gaunt-looking for the elf's comfort. He could only hope the poor fool would spend the coin on food and clean clothes rather than the bottle.

Where most travelers would head inside the welcoming tavern, the elf, instead, turned around and began striding across the road to a modest stone building. The village's chantry paled in comparison to those within the cities, with no golden statues of Andraste within or stained glass windows crafted from an artisan's touch. It was old, simple, and quiet. As the man's lyrium-tainted fingertips brushed against the wood of the door, the man would feel a strange sense come over him.

Euphoria, though he doubted it was the proper application of the word. The doors, old, cracked and slightly molded, brought a slew of memories back to the elf. Isabela's kisses upon his scarred flesh, Hawke's gentle and firm touches of friendship and comradeship, and Sebastian's knowing smile when their eyes met in the Chantry. Friendship. He felt welcome within the doors, and warm in spite of the autumn chill.

As he entered, he could see that there were only few people within. A small group of sisters, standing together and whispering, though just what they were saying was lost in the echo. The Revered Mother, a woman whose name he remembered as being Shiloh, sat at the pews in prayer, though she did not speak, merely sit there with her head bowed to her Maker.

There was a usually certain peace that radiated from the building, just as light bled from a candle. He had rarely entered a chantry without feeling a sense of safety, the last bit most could find in current years. As he walked up the aisle, eyeing the carpet below his feet as he did, before he would close his eyes and inhale deeply.

He did not feel safe.

His eyes opened once more, and his attention would shift to the group of women. With two having their backs to him, he could only see the shortest of the sisters. Her flesh was pale, though she did not wear the robes of a cloistered sister. Her eyes were wide, yet she was comfortable around Fenris by now, and there was a faint shine from her skin, yet it was neither hot nor raining. She met his eyes and smiled, he did not return it.

She was trembling. Her fear sang loudly, and his markings tingled in warning. She was afraid, not of him, but of something. Something close. Her eyes shined with tears, her smiling face falling into a quiet sob. The sisters tried to comfort her, their voices soft and reassuring, though he could make out nothing of what they said.

His ear twitched, and Fenris would sidestep, turning sharply to see an arrow lodged in the pew behind him. They sisters screamed as the mother ran to them, trying to bring them to safety. Their fear was bright, but not blinding.

The elf followed the arrow's path, seeing an armored woman on the second floor with another one knocked and ready. He sneered as he began to run, but not to the door, rather, the stairs. He took them two at a time, leaping with each movement as he would draw his blade. A familiar weight, a familiar situation.

Upon landing on the cool tiles of the second floor, the elf didn't miss a beat. Immediately he would charge forward, his face stoic and his voice silent as the woman turned to face him. Her face was not unfamiliar, with fair skin, a nose that had clearly been broken, and thick eyebrows. A homely woman, and by the glint in those pale eyes of hers, she had seen her fair share of war, if not in the past few years, then well before that.

He danced to the side, an arrow flicking past his ear and into the window. The glass's shatter rang clear as a bell, yet it was secondary, registered but not acknowledged, not yet. First, he had the woman to deal with.

Upon drawing close to her, however, she would take the bottom of her bow in both hands. Fenris's brows furrowed - What was she going to do? She wasn't planning to-

Whack!

The elf fell back, his momentum effectively broken as the bow slapped across his cheek, sending him flying back. His head cracked against the tile, causing the elf to groan and bring a hand to his head. He wasn't bleeding from his scalp, not as far as he could tell, his cheek was a different story. As his vision would settle, he could see blurry smears against the white. He tasted copper in his mouth, hot and sticky, as if it had been sweat.

Spitting to the side, the man pulled himself back up in time to see the woman running at him with a thick short sword. As she slashed forward, he would dive back, though he didn't fall again. Instead, he would use both feet to push himself from the ground.

His markings were glowing now, leaving a charred, black burn where they had touched the ground, effectively burning a hole through his boots. It was in such times where time seemed to bend to the warrior's will. With the floor beneath him feeling to have vanished, the elf lunged to the woman, his hand outstretched and ethereal.

His fingers slipped past her skin with ease, squeezing gently once they had gotten past layers of skin and muscle. Apathetic eyes gazed to her as her face turned to that of struggle and agony, her scream coming out as a wet, choked cough. He held her like that for several seconds, watching her panic grow over what must have seemed like years to the woman.

He pulled his hand back then, his markings' light settling once their job was done into a soft glow. The woman fell to the ground, landing with a thud as she coughed and hacked. He allowed for her to recover for a few moments before he reached out again, this time taking hold of her cropped hair and yanking her up.

Once he properly had the woman in his grasp, the elf would slam her into the wall. With one hand holding her still, the other held onto his blade, which he seemed to be using less and less as time passed, "Answer me," the elf snarled as he would glare, "Who sent you?" Words he spoke all too often, those, often met with either spit in his face or a sobbing confession of being manipulated and used, shortly being followed by his would-be killer begging for their life.

The woman, however, did neither of the two things. Her eyes hardened, and the elf prepared himself for a spit that would never come. Instead, she spoke in a hoarse, strained voice, "Prince Sebastian Vael," after which she would cough, raising her hand to cover it before it was promptly smacked away by the elf's gauntleted hand.

"Why did he send you to me? Does he wish me dead?" The elf, while hostile, was perplexed: He had not left on bad terms with Sebastian. While Fenris had remained at the Champion's side during the uprising, the prince was a friend, one who had gone so far as to offer him a position in his army after the elf had left Hawke's side. Why Sebastian would send an assailant after him both confused and concerned him: How long had she been waiting for him? What other habits of his did the prince know?

"No," she answered, "He wished for me to test you… He did not expect me to best you."

Fenris scoffed, "I could have killed you," he pointed out, "Very easily. He was willing to risk your life to test me? I find that hard to believe."

"If you would allow for me to move, I can show you the orders," She muttered, coughing shortly after before glaring up to the elf, "He told me you would not believe me."

"Nor would anyone with sense," Fenris growled, though he would step away from the woman, allowing for her to move as she saw fit. He would eye her bow, however, dropped onto the floor when he had been choking her. His eyes darted between her and her weapon, as not to miss a moment if she decided to spring to it instead of her pack. She would, however, reach into her satchel and produce a scroll. After handing it to the elf, she stood mutely with her arms crossed, eyeing him expectantly.

In the fine script of a scribe's hand, the parchment wrote curtly above what Fenris assumed was the Vael royal seal:

Lady Shyla,

You are to travel to the village of Argyll's Crossing and wait as long as needed for the elf Fenris. Upon seeing him approach the village, immediately prepare to ambush him in the church. Warn the sisters and mother of what is to happen, and see to it that they remain unharmed. Leave a donation before you go. Once finished with the fight, whomever the victor, you are to escort Fenris to the palace in order to meet with His Highness Prince Sebastian Vael. You are not to aim to kill the elf, merely test him for combat prowess.

With an irritable grunt, he tossed the scroll back to her, "I believe you." His head would tilt to the side, however, with his eyes staring directly and aggressively into her own, "It is out of character for Sebastian to send orders to attack within a chantry. Explain this."

In lieu of doing so, Shyla would simply frown, "My orders were not to explain his highness's ethics." She walked over to her bow, picking it up and ignoring the curse Fenris had called her in Tevinte while she did.

With little else spoken between the two of them, they would make their way out the door. While Shyla approached the Revered Mother to apologize and donate on behalf of the prince, Fenris moved to the door. He pushed it open, the his markings stinging as they made contact with the cold and unforgiving wood.

As he stepped out, he noticed a boy, one who looked to be waiting for him, perk up. However, as the child caught sight of his hero, he would frown, concern and fear clear on his features. Fenris couldn't blame him. His face was sticky with his own blood, and his markings had burned holes through his boots and clothing, as they always would when he went into an unexpected fight. Maker forbid he assume he'd have a quiet night.

"I am fine," he told the young man, who looked both worried and delighted in the fact that the elf had spoken to him directly, "Your concern is appreciated… Go inside, I'm sure your mother wants you home for supper." He watched the boy nod dumbly, a grin spreading on the youth's face as he no-doubt began to plan out the story in which Fenris looked at him and talked to him. His hero was certain that half the village would think he had practically adopted the child come sunrise.

Trying to push the night's events from his mind, Fenris walked back across the way to the inn. With a room prepared for him out of habit, he would pay the innkeep before walking up the stairs, and to the familiar little space.

It wasn't much, small, scarcely furnished, and with blankets that were clearly homemade. With the sun setting, he became the room's primary light source, with his markings glowing softly through the fabric and leather of his traveling clothes. He set his sword down next to his saddlebag, which he noticed the stable boy had brought up for such a generous tip, and he began to undress.

His ruined clothe slipped off with ease, his shirt falling apart as it did, and landing in several pieces on the floor. His boots, pants and small clothes, all ruined by his lyrium markings burning in the fight, followed in suit until he stood there, nude and alone.

Approaching the bed, he fell into it with all the grace of an exhausted man who had gone without a proper rest in days. Wrapping the covers over him, sleep overtook the elf before his thoughts could, leaving tomorrow's problems for just that.


	2. Starkhaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris finally arrives in Starkhaven, which is quite different than what he expected. Unsure as to if he's a guest or a prisoner, he intends to meet with Sebastian to hear from the horse's mouth what happened in the Chantry and what he wants.

Shyla made for poor conversation, Fenris learned this through a dreadfully long two weeks of travel with the woman. Despite her noble title, she was stoic, someone of few words, which, when Fenris wasn’t trying to pry information from her, often left him alone to his thoughts. 

While she refused to tell him why Sebastian had sent for him, much less why he ordered an attack in the Cathedral, Fenris noticed that she never tried to bind him, not that she could. When he would steer his horse behind the rocks, or move his bedroll behind the trees, she never once moved as to keep an eye on him or make sure he didn’t flee. He wasn’t being treated as a prisoner, which was the only indication of the prince’s intentions being peaceful. 

As he watched the Free Marches countryside pass, he could practically hear Varric’s voice. Oh, if the dwarf were here, there would be no silence. Complaints, yes, but certainly no silence. If he wasn’t complaining about his horse, he would be complaining about the terrain, or the cold, or the color of the sky… Anything relating to not being inside, really.

Then Hawke would chip in, the burly Ferelden that he was, insisting that it was a rather nice day out, with the summers of his country being far too cold for the city dwarf to handle as it was. He could only imagine where Varric had escaped to after fleeing Kirkwall. Now that they were at the cusp of winter, he could only hope that his friend had found some new tavern to lounge around, and some new serving girl to flirt with. 

He could recall their nights in the Hanged Man vividly. Varric and Isabela would be playing Wicked Grace, in a never-ending contest over who was better at cheating. Meanwhile, Merril would be sitting next to the Rivaini, having found a rat to deem her pet for the night. All the while she would be fending off Aveline, who was trying to tear the disease-ridden creature from the foolish elf. Hawke would be in his designated seat by the fireplace, drunk, and with that wretched mage in his lap. As the two of them practically devoured one another, Sebastian would be leading a prayer for the wicked and the drunk, with his every word falling upon deaf ears.

“We’re getting close to the city.” Shyla’s voice pulled Fenris from his memories, and as his eyes would focus on the road ahead of them, just budding above the horizon line, he would be able to see the alabaster walls of Starkhaven, “Prince Sebastian will receive you in the palace. You will be given ample time to rest before his highness seeks an audience with you.”

“Seeks an audience with me?” The elf mused. That certainly wasn’t something he heard everyday. Even in his later years in Kirkwall, where people recognized him as the Champion’s body guard, he was still an elf, and an unsettling one at that. People avoided him, giving him just enough respect to stay out of his way. 

Shyla, unsurprisingly, gave little more than a grunt of acknowledgement in response. With conversation clearly not an option, Fenris’s gaze turned to the walls once more. Starkhaven was more intimidating that he would have thought: He would have thought that white walls would be welcoming, but rather they loomed ominously, as pale as death itself. Where Sebastian’s armor was the same white, he had the fatherly personality to make his set seem pure and noble. These walls, however, they looked threatening, arrogant he would even say. The shadows cast upon the ground, with those stone bricks gazing down at all who enter with no shortage of judgement. He felt like he was already being watched. 

As they approached the gates however, with curious civilians staring at him throughout the entire ordeal, he would finally feel as though he were entering a city and not a prison. Once past the white walls, the city was an explosion of color, with the familiar grimey grays and browns making themselves known on every building. However, colorful banners of reds, blues and greens strung overhead muted the grime, and when aided by the sounds of lutes and song from the nearby tavern, it became less dirty and more home-like. It reminded him of a cleaner version of Lowtown. 

The scent of hot food was almost enough for the elf to derail from Shyla completely in favor of the tavern. He could smell spiced meats and fresh vegetables, the heat of which cracked through the frosty air to greet him. The bitter and rich aroma of Rivaini coffee clung to the air like perfume, and only then did Fenris truly realize how exhausted he was, and what he would give for just one cup of it. 

His stallion’s chest rumbled as they passed a grain merchant, and the elf would smirk knowingly. It seemed that he wasn’t the only one looking forward to a decent meal. 

Leaning back, Fenris placed one hand on his saddlebag as they walked through the lower district of the city. The gate’s market was a pickpocket’s natural habitat, after all, he would know. He remembered his time running from Danarius, wearing layer upon layer of filthy rags to hide his markings and hair while he fetched gold enough for room and food. And now, over ten years later, here he was being escorted to the royal palace within such a city as a guest. 

Starkhaven wasn’t unlike most other cities in many respects. The poor district showed the true character of the city, with civilians who were diverse and surprisingly content as such. He passed a human and an elf drinking with one another, gossiping in the slurred drunken tongue, and they were laughing. Such a thing he would never find in Kirkwall, or, he assumed, anywhere else in the world. 

Soon enough, they reached the palace. It held the same foreboding walls as the gates of the city, though if Fenris was correct, the inside would be just as welcoming as the market was. He slid off of his horse, taking the saddlebag onto his back, and allowed for one of the stable hands to take the moody pony to a proper stall. 

When he felt the weight on his back being lifted, the elf spun sharply, one hand having moved threateningly to the hilt of his blade. He was expecting to see the face of a pickpocket, but rather, a thoroughly terrified servant who had been trying to carry the bag for him. Dropping his hand, Fenris would have him off, “I will carry it,” he spoke, though it came out as more of a growl than he intended. The boy squeaked before sprinting away. 

The elf was lead within the palace, and he would eye the paintings that lined the walls. They were of the Vael family, of course, tan skinned men and women, brown of hair, bright blue eyes, they didn’t seem to differ much with each generation. He couldn’t say he was surprised: He assumed that they would breed akin to Tevinter, where pure bloodlines were the goal in every union. Although he assumed they had vastly different ideas as to what purity meant.

Soon enough, however, his guide would stop in front of a door, gesturing for the elf to make his way in. It was not the room of a prisoner. The elf would set his bag and sword down before stepping inside, taking his quarters in. 

Extravagant failed to define how lavish the space was. Natural light bled through the glass doors, which lead to a balcony just outside. Cream-colored curtains covered the ends of the glass, matching the throw carpet and bedsheets. Maker, the bed. The mattress was large enough to fit two Qunari comfortably, and the elf wondered idly if Sebastian forgot the fact that the white haired warrior was a good head shorter than the prince himself.

The walls and floors were made of stone, marble by the looks of it: It was cool to the touch and easy to walk upon, which Fenris took some pleasure in. His ear would twitch upon hearing the door click shut, and would glance over his shoulder. He was alone. 

Moving silently, he stepped through the archway into the side room. A copper tub was waiting for him, expertly crafted, with various bars of soaps and bottles of several colors resting beside it. The elf found himself smiling, he had forgotten the strange ways in which Starkhaven viewed hygiene, though he was no less pleased.

It didn’t take long to draw the bath, with several jugs of water having been provided for such a task. With it filled sufficiently, the elf would uncork one of the potions. It was hot to the touch, the labeling holding a flame, and he would pour it into the bath water. Within moments, it became hot, if a slightly red-tinted color. 

With a content smile, he would begin to unbuckle the harnesses of his armor. Setting the plate gently off to the side, he would then begin to step from his armor, revealing tanned, lyrium embedded flesh. His muscles flexed involuntarily, aching for a rest after such a long travel, though the elf had no desire to turn those cream sheets dark brown with the filth of the road. 

Once he was completely nude, he raised a leg and crawled into the tub. The water washed over him like the embrace of a lover: Hot, welcoming, and giving him some form of the rest his body pleaded so passionately for. A weary moan would escape from the elf as he sank further into the pink waters, Maker, if he could stay in that water for hours, he would have no complaints. 

With no shortage of protest from his body, he sat back up, taking hold of one of the soaps. He sniffed it curiously as he brought it near. It smelled of juniper berries and a herb he couldn’t quite name. While he doubted the uses in terms of being clean, it certainly would do well to mask the scent of travel - He doubted the servants would take kindly to him meeting their royal while smelling like a stable, after all. 

After dipping the bar into the water, he began to coat his arms and chest with it, watching as the suds would wash over his scars and cause his markings to tickle and sting - A pain he was well acquainted with by then. He could recall years past when Danarius took delight in bathing with the elf, for the reason that he could watch Fenris’s face twist with pain every time his master ran those filthy soap-coated fingers over fresh glowing scars. Now, he would never give him such a satisfaction. 

His hair had grown longer, Fenris noted duly. It wasn’t necessarily a shock: It had been three years since Isabela had been able to give him anything in terms of a proper haircut, leaving the elf to simply cut the dead ends off with a knife every six months or so. His hair now rested at his shoulders, tangled and matted beyond repair, with specks of black-bronze flaking from the matted chunks.

He took hold of one of the bottles, straining his eyes as he tried to read the label… Or rather, he looked for the warnings. Far less effort to know what he couldn’t do with it than what he could. After finding none that barred against using it in his hair, the elf would pour a large amount of the liquid into his hand and slap it on his head. 

It was cold and felt gooey. Though as he would rub it in, the scent of cranberries filled the air as his hair would fill up with suds, running down his cheeks wildly. With mild panic, he realized he may have used too much.

It took a grand total of twenty minutes to get all of the shampoo from his hair. By the time he was finished, the tub was little more than brown-red water and dirty bubbles. He now smelled of berries and herbs, however, and the layer of dirt that had caked him was no more. 

He would approach the mirror soon after, taking himself in now that he was cleaned. He wouldn’t say he had changed much in the past several years: His hair was the only thing that had any sort of notable change. Heavy bags still rested under his eyes from sleepless nights, and he had the same amount of muscle as he did in Kirkwall. No new piercings to speak of had been added, and only a few new scars, none of which were notable to have any extravagant story attached to them.

Taking hold of a small blade, he would sit down on the rim of the tub and take hold of those filthy mats. The process of cutting through them took longer than he would have liked, and was messier than he had anticipated, though it was nothing a servant couldn’t sweep up. He had cut his hair shorter than planned, having initially made a mistake and tried to fit it by going shorter. And shorter. And shorter still. Now, he had a completely different style, with short sides and a longer top that failed to cover the markings on his forehead.

Only once satisfied with his state did he finally crawl under the blankets of the bed provided. He found himself letting out a weary, grateful sigh as he nuzzled the pillow, feeling the down feathers under cloth that felt as soft as the clouds. The elf was completely lost under a sea of covers in a bed comically large for his scale, and there was no place he would rather be. His last thought before he began to drift was a small hope that he didn’t have a nightmare. It would be a shame for his markings to burn through such wondrous sheets. 

\---

“E-excuse me, serah?” 

Fenris groaned as the voice interrupted his sleep, simply rolling over; it was the easiest method of saying ‘go away’ without having to form the words for it. 

“Serah? I-I’m terribly sorry, but-but Prince Sebastian--” 

The poor elf let out a shout as Fenris sat up immediately upon hearing the name. What hair he had left was standing in every direction, and the pattern of the sheets having embedded themselves into his cheek. A graceful sight to be sure as he blinked awake. When his eyes would finally focus, he frowned upon seeing the servant having fallen to her knees. She was begging for his forgiveness, yet, groggy and mildly irritated, he could make no sense of her words. 

“What day is it?” He grunted, finding no amusement in the servant’s bewilderment as he moved out from the covers, which he was pleased to see were no less damaged than when he crawled into them the day -or days?- before. 

“I-it’s the twelfth of Kingsway?” The servant squeaked as she jumped to her feet, already backing toward the door in horror as Fenris, who was quite nude, made his way out into the open. Her cheeks lit up a rosy pink color, and she found a particularly interesting spot on the wall to stare at as the former slave began to dress himself, “You’ve been asleep since, ah, since yesterday afternoon, serah. I-it’s the morning now. Prince Sebastian would like to eat his first meal with you.” 

Fenris merely grunted again as he walked into the bathroom, reaching for those scented oils to quickly rub on his body. While he cared little for such things, he didn’t need to see the Prince, or yet his servants, making a fuss over his scent. As he caught sight of his reflection, the tattooed elf would hum as he ran his fingers through his hair, a feeble attempt in styling the length he had settled for. 

He stepped back into the bedroom, nodding for the servant to lead the way. She did so, eagerly and quickly, as if staying close to Fenris for too long would cause her to contract some disease from him. It was not an uncommon response from others. In half the time it should have taken, she brought him to a large set of double doors, gesturing for him to enter, as if she had suddenly become mute in the time since she had woken him. 

Taking a breath before he began, Fenris rested his hands upon the cool wood of the doors before he would push them open, and step into the dining hall. 

The scene… Well, he didn’t know what he had expected, but it certainly wasn’t the reality. The room was small, about a quarter of the size he had been expecting it to be. The table, while better quality, was roughly the same size as any peasant’s dining table, with two places set, where plates and filled glasses of ice water rested. The chairs looked soft and padded, and were the same cream color as the rest of the interior. Much like the room he had been provided, large glass windows allowed the natural morning light to shine in, seeming just as welcoming as the man waiting for him. 

“Good morning, Fenris.” Maker, how Sebastian had changed. Three years ago, the elf had watched him spin his heel and walk away from him, from all of them, once Hawke had stated he was not about to execute Anders. In only three years, that idealistic chantry brother had become a man who at least looked fitting to be crowned king. His hair, now with subtle streaks of gray running through it, was longer and tied back, and a small, neatly trimmed beard had grown in quite nicely. His face, especially around his eyes, now had lines of both age and stress, telling tales of hardship since he had left Kirkwall.

He still had those almost obnoxiously bright blue eyes, although where they had once reminded Fenris of those of a doe, they now held a different quality. A cat would more accurately describe the look in his eyes: clever and calculating, though with a certain warmth that could easily draw one in. He hadn’t lost that comforting presence he seemed to hold, the one that had annoyed Varric to no end. While he may have accepted his role as Starkhaven’s leader, the years spent in the Chantry as a priest had not gone in vain. 

“It’s good to see you again,” The prince’s voice interrupted his thoughts, with a small chuckle sounding from him. Whatever face Fenris was making, it must have amused the royal. “I admit, I was worried that you were either dead or out of the Free Marches by the time I was able to seek you out. I’m glad that Lady Shayla was able to track you.” 

“About that,” Fenris finally found the voice to speak. He stepped toward the table, slowly sitting himself down. He had never been one for physical affection, offering no embrace or even a handshake, though Sebastian didn’t seem offended by such. Rather, those eyes held understanding most could only hope to rival. “Your girl attacked me in the middle of a Chantry, and under your orders. It caught me off-guard… It seems very out of character for you to order such, with such intimate details.” 

With that smile never leaving him, Sebastian nodded slowly as he would listen, “I did condone the order,” he admitted, “I went to lengths to ensure none of the Chantry sisters or the Revered Mother were injured during such, and I’m personally seeing to it that any and all damages were properly repaired and cleaned. If anything, that little village is getting a much-needed upgrade, wouldn’t you say?”

“But why there?” Fenris asked, his eyes narrowing as his head would tilt, “You could have just as easily ambushed me while I was riding into the town, yet you did not.” 

“I didn’t,” Sebastian nodded again as he sipped at the glass of water, “The point of attacking you there was to catch you off-guard. I wanted to see if you could look past your personal beliefs to get a job done, and I wanted to see if you could think on your feet still. I’m pleased to hear that you more than impressed.” 

“But why?” The elf demanded again, his eyes hard and stubborn, “You would not do such a thing without a reason for testing me. Tell me what it is.” 

As Sebastian’s eyes met the warrior’s once more, he had no doubt that they had indeed changed. There was nothing docile about them now, as flicks of subtle rage and hurt would flash through them, “I need you to hunt someone for me. Someone who has managed to escape punishment too many times.” 

“It took me three years to take my city back and get everything in order, Fenris. For three years, this person, this abomination has wondered unchecked by the templars or by anyone.” Sebastian swallowed again before placing the glass down, “I intend to succeed where Hawke had failed. I will see the victims of Kirkwall avenged, and the first step on that path is to bring the man responsible to the headsman's block.”

the warrior’s eyes would widen and his mouth hang slack as he realized just what was being asked of him. 

“I called you here so you help justice be done: I need you to track down Anders.”


	3. The Answer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris remembers just what Anders had done that Sebastian wants him tracked down, and considers whether bringing him back would be the right thing to do. Sebastian begins to set Fenris on-edge, and he's not quite certain if he still knows the prince as he did before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sort of a boring chapter - The next ones are where the fun stuff happens, I promise. I'm looking forward to it.

Fenris remembered the day well. It had began like any other, Hawke having called upon him to play bodyguard while he used Kirkwall as his own personal playground. The only thing that was even mildly out of the norm was the fact that Anders was not with them - Hawke had always insisted on bringing the insufferable mage everywhere. “For healing!” He would say with a laugh, though the elf was not stupid. He saw the longing glances he would give to his mage, and knew exactly why he was brought along. 

That day, however, Anders had simply said he had something important to do, and had left it at that. It was nothing overly strange; Of recent years, the blond had grown more reserved and elusive, often finding excuses to keep him from traveling with Hawke, leaving him to his own devices. Looking back on it, Fenris wished the Champion would have forced his insufferable paramour to join them. Surely, Fenris would have preferred the mage’s company to his actions.

It was Varric, Aveline and himself who had been with Hawke when yet another courier delivered yet another letter, the same as the last ones he had received for the last year and a half, which were likely to be sent to the rest of their ‘merry band of misfits.’ The Knight Commander and the Grand Enchanter were feuding again, publically, and Sebastian was failing to convince the Grand Cleric to get involved, and was trying, and failing, to mediate between them. Thus, they called upon the man who had become the real power in the city to come tear the screaming children apart. 

Fenris wasn’t all that sure that Hawke minded. While they all had better things to do than drag their feet to the Gallows, they would often get to see Bethany, which almost made the trip worthwhile. It was wonderful at first, with the Champion’s sister having no shortage of gossip, over which templars were kind, which were loony, what mages were involved in a clandestine relationship and which were pets of the Knight Commander. After ten visits, they knew the mage tower better than most of the templars did. Although after twenty, the news began to repeat, and at thirty, it became much less of a treat and more of a biweekly visit, with no news other than polite small talk. At sixty, that was when Bethany began to grow worried. At eighty, she was grateful to have evaded the Knight-Commander long enough to keep her head on her shoulders. The visits became less of pleasantry and more of being sure she had survived three days, or if Varric’s bribes for her safety had been worth it. He remembered Anders having asked more than once if he could take Bethany away from the wretched prison, and every time she would refuse, stating that the children needed her to keep themselves safe.

“Change will come,” he remembered Anders promising her every time she refused his offer, “You will be free one day, we all will be.” 

At the time, they were little more than empty promises of the desperate. Now, three years later, had the elf realized with a sullen expression that he had been trying to warn her of what was to come.

On that day, that one wretched day, they arrived at the Gallows, as they had countless times before, and walked straight into the verbal war between the elven man and armored woman. All but Anders had gone to the site, as they had taken habit to doing, just in case. They would all be damned if they let Hawke fight the Knight Commander or First Enchanter alone. On some level, the elf felt such loyalty was the result of guilt, which was constantly refreshed when they would catch sight of the Champion’s face, and the scars from his duel with the Qunari’s militant leader. 

The topic of their argument Fenris couldn’t quite recall, though it had something to do with the Knight Commander overstepping her boundaries and rights, as she had been doing for years. It was nothing new, in fact, he was certain he had heard that exact debate at least four times in the last fortnight alone.

After some point in the argument, they moved to find the Grand Cleric, or one of them did. It was loud, incredibly so. Even without the two leaders thick in debate, screams were distinct in the distance; howls of anger and fear from mages and templars both. He could hear the wails of raped mages, as well as the shouts of orphaned templars, each with valid reasons for their hatred. Anyone who claimed there was a calm before the storm had clearly not been to Kirkwall. The air had swelled with a thickness of emotion, it caused his markings to tingle and leave burns in the pavement where his toes rested. 

“The Grand Cleric cannot help you!” It was Anders’ voice that broke through the shouting. Fenris watched the various expressions: From Hawke and Aveline there was concern, likely for his well-being. He was speaking directly to the Knight Commander, after all, the woman who would see him on the executioner’s block. The templar herself held an expression of anger, while her elven counterpart simply seemed confused. Varric, Fenris would almost swear, looked afraid. 

As he spoke, both the First Enchanter and the Knight Commander would try to interrupt him. Though Anders, with a slam of his staff on the ground, would continue speaking. He remembered the weight in the mage’s words, the dread, fear and excitement that laced through his tone. 

The bright, unnatural glow of possession broke through the apostate’s skin, sending his veins alight as the spirit within began speaking for him. A shameful fear prevented Fenris from acting, from gutting the man where he stood: Nothing good could possibly come if Justice, or Vengeance as the spirit was properly named, had decided to show itself in front of the Knight Commander. If he were to slay the wayward mage, rather than Meredith, then at least then Hawke could hate him, a singular person, and not all the Knight Commander represented. The templars needed Hawke. 

“Anders, what did you do?” The Champion’s voice, fearful and now anxious, muttered. His words were only just loud enough for them to make out. 

The hairs on Fenris’s neck stood on edge, and his body quivered as his markings burned brighter. While it had been less than a moment of warning, it was long enough for him to kneel and cover his ears. Even with such protection, the blast was near-deafening, and the shockwaves sent him to the pavement. He remembered the world having gone fuzzy, and his ears ringing too loudly to have heard anything for several minutes. He tasted blood in his mouth, and realized that he had bitten his tongue on the way down. It took a few attempts for him to sit up, with every movement he forced causing waves of dizziness and nausea to overtake him. He spit to the side, sending red splashes on the darkened pavement as he struggled to uncork and down a health potion for his tongue. 

Whatever sunlight there had been had vanished, leaving the sky bleeding a deep scarlet, as if it had been flesh physically torn. Debree from the explosion rested around them, with several templars and mages on the ground, unconscious or bleeding from having been hit with flying stones or wood from where the Chantry had stood only seconds earlier. He smelled flames, though it was impossible to determine where the fire was. The air was thick with heat and the scent of charred flesh, making every breath like inhaling embers, burning at the back of their throats like magefire. He could almost taste the sickly, almost pork-like stench in the air, and he turned over, dry heaving in a desperate attempt to rid his system of such foulness.

 

Most of those around had been knocked off of their feet, with only Aveline and the Knight Commander having been left on their feet. Quietly, Fenris watched as the First Enchanter stood, his face having lost all color. His mouth moved, though Fenris couldn’t make out what he had said. His armored counterpart had remained stony and cold, somehow. He could see the fear in her eyes, almost a mournful glint as she stared toward the red pillar where there had once been a mighty building of worship and love.

A firm hand helped him to his feet, and he looked over to see the scarred face of the Champion. As Fenris stumbled, the rogue was sure to steady him, earning a slight, albit dizzy nod of thanks. 

Merril approached him next, placing small hands on their side of his jaw as he felt the familiar tingle of healing magic, though far from the traditional kind, slip from her fingertips. As the Dalish spell worked, his vision would clear and his hearing return to him. He wasn’t quite sure he wanted the rest of his senses back just yet.

“Elthina, no!” Sebastian’s voice cried out, the first thing Fenris had heard. He looked over, watching the prince fall to his knees as howls of mourning escaped the usually composed man, “Maker, no! She was your most faithful, your most beloved!” The archer’s head hung shamefully, his voice throaty as his eyes watered, “Why didn’t she listen to me?”

The face of the prince was one of having been shattered, and while Fenris wanted to say he understood the pain, he could not. Sebastian, who had been abandoned by his family when they grew tired of him, who never got to make amends with them before they were murdered, had lost the Grand Cleric, the one woman he could call family, even if not by blood. The single person in his life who kept his faith alive, a smile on his face and hope in his voice, gone. 

And now, three years later, Fenris looked upon that same face, though his feature were twisted. Gone was the peaceful man of the cloth, the Chantry Brother who would welcome him with open arms even if the elf would do little more than glance toward him. Now, standing before him was a vengeful prince in mourning, one who was finished with sitting back and being polite to those who had wronged him. Behind those cat-like eyes, he could see ambition and a thirst for justice, sewn together with a thick string of hatred and hurt. 

When Sebastian’s eyes met Fenris’s once more, his markings would hiss and sting in warning, with small bursts of spirit energy burning through the tablecloth. 

“What makes you think I, of all people, know where Anders is now?” Fenris finally found his voice, and he would lean forward, taking that offensive stance the prince was used to.

“I don’t,” Sebastian responded with a patient smile. Reaching into his satchel, he pulled out a letter, though he did not hand it to the man, rather, he read it aloud for the semi-literate man, “Hawke, Blondie’s a hard man to track, but I think I’ve got him. According to one of my boys, he’s in Ferelden, which isn’t surprising. From what I hear, the rebel mages took him in. They’ve taken up refuge in the town of Redcliffe, that would be the best place to start looking. Stay safe and don’t run face-first into any dragons. Varric.” 

Placing the letter back on the table, the prince’s head cocked gently, “I didn’t hurt either of them, if that’s what you’re about to accuse me of. One of my archers shot down the bird that was carrying this about three months ago, shortly before we began looking for you in earnest. The information is dated, but it gives you a good place to begin.”

With a hum, the warrior sat back, his arms crossing, “You have this all planned out, don’t you?” He’d mutter as he eyed the prince, “I assume you have some form of compensation waiting for me.”

“Of course,” The smile never left Sebastian, unsettling for such unpleasant business and the hardness of his eyes, “Upon your return, I would offer you a position in Starkhaven, working alone for the most part, as I’ve seen you tend to prefer. You would be paid generously to keep both the war between mages and templars outside of the city-state, as well as to track down and dispose of Tevinter slavers come to prey on refugees. You would be given a suitable estate, as well as no small lump-sum for bringing Anders back.” That smile of his would widen, “And I assume there would be some form of emotional fulfillment simply for seeing that monster brought to justice for what he’s done. I know there certainly will be on my part.”

“And be careful while you’re out there,” Sebastian spoke with a firmer tone, “I know your dislike for mages, but you may need to play nicely with a few in order to get him alone, or at all. You’re a capable man, but even you’re not strong enough to defeat an army of apostates by yourself.” He sipped at his tea again, “We were fortunate, if you could call it that, that the Circle burned down those years ago and my idiot cousin never rebuilt. There are only few rebels, and they’re nothing the remaining templars can’t handle. Ferelden, though, is a completely different story. Sources there say the war has made the roads near impossible to travel, as the mages attack anyone in sight, and the templars assume anyone who isn’t in their colors is a mage sympathizer. It’s not safe there.”

“Nowhere is safe,” Fenris responded quietly, looking down to his own hands. He had longed to see the foolish mage’s head on the chopping block since they had laid eyes upon one another, and that urge only grew stronger after he had fooled them all into helping him destroy the Chantry. He hated Anders. He wanted to see him dead, to see him suffer and break as he deserved. Yet, now that he had the opportunity to chase after him… Part of him hesitated. He held no love for the blond, yet others did. Varric, how could he look him in the eyes after that? The dwarf was angry at the mage, of course, but when it came down to it, he knew the hairy little man would stand at his defence in an instant if his life was threatened. And Hawke, Maker, if he ever saw Hawke again, what would he think? And Isabela, who delighted in Anders’ conversation and inability to ever figure out she was cheating in Wicked Grace. A part of him, small and guilty, thought of Merril, the stupid girl who, despite their differences and biting words, never learned how to hate anyone, Anders and Fenris both. He could imagine Aveline’s disappointed but understanding frown clearly, as she was a woman who understood that Anders was deserving of death, even if it was not pleasant for her to witness. 

And, he would follow her example. Leveling his gaze with that of Sebastian once more, he would nod once, “Alright. I’ll make for Ferelden then, and bring Anders back to face execution.”


	4. The Hunt

Getting to Redcliffe was more tedious than Fenris had planned for. The prince had insisted that he leave his little pony behind in Starkhaven for the beast’s own safety. From the reports, the roads of Ferelden had become so dangerous that the horse would be nothing if not a large, fuzzy target for templars and mages both. As such, the elf was forced to pack light, though it was nothing he wasn’t used to. 

The bag he had prepared had served him well. It was nothing fancy, something sturdy and ugly, the backpack would fit right in with Ferelden. Within, a compass, maps, a tinderbox, spare potions, and various other tools of travel had been packed. On his belt, more potions, a canteen, a spare knife that wouldn’t fit safely in his shoes, and his coin purse. Normally he would have used his blanket as one of the saddle pads, and wasn’t quite used to the extra bulk on his back, though it was nothing he couldn’t manage.

Tracking Anders had proven to be more difficult than expected: He only wanted to go into the village if he absolutely needed to, having been foolishly convinced he could find the mage without their help. 

Normally, chasing after a mage was easy. They left quite the trail behind them, with frozen rodents or charred wolves creating an easy-to-follow pathway into the woods. However, he realized quickly, when the country was filled to the brim with mages; the trail could lead to one hundred and seven different mystics for all he knew. He couldn’t kick a dead cat without hitting some evidence of an apostate having left their mark, and on some level, it was over-sensitizing. 

His markings responded to the magic around him, and he had honed them into creating a crisp language of the arcane arts. He could tell quite plainly, even with his eyes closed, if the ground had been charred with arcane flame or a spirit bolt, if blood magic had been used recently, where wards had once been set, even if they had vanished in time. Magic had its own tongue he couldn’t put into words. It usually made him an adept hunter, just not in Ferelden, it seemed.

As he stepped past the village gates, the elf bit his lip as he struggled to keep his inner panic just as that. He wanted to appear as non-threatening as he could, and his markings burning and glowing did him no favors. It wasn’t necessarily that he was frightened of the mages around him, he knew well that if need be, he could evade their attacks and flee. Rather, he felt as though he was entering a cave riddled with traps and without a rogue. Any move too sudden could trigger a fireball or a step in the wrong direction could send searing pain up his back.

The magic around him hissed the vibrations nearly drove him over the edge. In Tevinter, he could keep himself under control, for the Magisters and their families were expertly trained. In Kirkwall’s Gallows, he was able to keep things together due to the fact that only the mages deemed as safe were allowed into the courtyard. They could all control their abilities. Now, however, in the village that housed the rebels, he could feel the cool control of the elder mages, but as could he feel the chaotic looseness of the apprentices and apostates, those who had never been told how to properly control themselves. It was their magic that made his markings burn as they were. Their influence licked at the lyrium, as if begging for it. He felt dirty, like a common potion in the eyes of the younger robes. He felt aggressive, like he had to prove to them, as he did to his former master, that he was more than some object for their gain. 

A deep breath. 

He was here for a reason, something he needed to remind himself of often. He stepped in the path of one of the more experienced mages, a lanky elven man with ginger hair and wide green eyes, “Excuse me,” Fenris tried to keep his voice as pleasant as possible, and faster than he found comfortable. The lull that Danarius had loved so came to his voice, replacing his inner aggression, “I’m looking for someone, I was hoping you could help me.” 

The elven boy was not fast to respond. He took in the other man’s appearance, with his tanned skin, his armor, the sword on his back, his accent, the items on his belt and the markings to boot, Fenris could only imagine what he was thinking of him. Whatever it was, nothing in terms of trust resonated from the pale mage. He could hardly blame him; by the looks of his arms, the subtle muscle he held, and the tears in his robe, he looked as though he was new to a life outside of the circle. He likely felt anyone who wasn’t one of his own was out to get him. It was a mindset the former slave knew well. 

“And just who are you looking for, then?” 

“An man by the name of Anders. I have it on good authority that you and your group are harboring this man, and I have been tasked with retrieving him.” Blunt and to the point. He was not about to disguise his purpose - After all, what would a man such as himself, armed to the teeth, clad in armor and with his own strange markings, be doing if not on business? 

“Are you a templar?” The mage asked as he reached for his own staff, as if it would help him.

“I’m an elf,” Fenris responded with a flat tone, “Elves cannot be templars. I am not affiliated with the Chantry or the templars, I am seeking him for a separate purpose.” He glanced around, “And if I were a templar, I wouldn’t be a very smart one, walking right into the mage base alone.”

With hesitant eyes, the mage’s staff would slowly lower, though he kept it firmly in his hand, “Then what do you need with the healer?” He asked, trying to instill a threatening tone to his voice, though the pubescent cracks broke any illusions he was able to pull off.

A black eyebrow would quirk, and slowly, Fenris would smile, “I never said he was a heaker,” he pointed out with an almost playful tone to his voice as he watched the color drain from the apprentice’s face. He made no movements to step toward the younger elf, not wanting him to flee or scream, rather, he crossed his arms and cocked his head gently to him, “You know where I can find him. Do not insult me by lying.” The smile was gone again. 

Slowly, he watched as the robed man stepped toward him. The rebel’s voice had gone to a soft, almost silent murmur, his lips barely moving as he spoke, “Anders is with us no longer. He caused…” The apprentice stopped, the word sitting at the edge of his tongue for a moment, “Friction, between some of the mages. Many who did not want to rebel blamed him, and it became a matter of his own safety…”

“I understand,” Fenris whispered in response, though his eyes would dart about, as if expecting some sort of ambush in exchange for the information provided, “He went somewhere if he is not here. Where?”

“I don’t know,” the younger elf spoke with fear, and Fenris believed him. He could only imagine the motivations behind the information being shared was a hope at peace. He could feel that the man before him was little more than an apprentice, someone who couldn’t hope to hold his own in a true battle. He likely saw Fenris’s strength, and figured cooperation would result in a longer life expectancy, “There is one area he might have gone, they call it Witchwood. They say Lyrium sprouts from the ground like trees, it’s where the reckless apostates are said to have made a base.”

Fenris nodded at that, and his hand reached behind himself, as to dig into his backpack. Taking hold of the parchment, he brought the map he had brought out, “Mark the location,” he demanded in a quiet, though no less intimidating tone.

The warrior shifted then, standing so that his back was toward the village as he held the map open for the young man. Fenris’s back hid from view any movements of the smaller elf, as if he had some note of care for the apprentice’s safety. The smell of burning would travel up with small puffs of smoke as an arcane burn left a stain on his destination. 

And, without another word, he was off again. 

\----

As it turned out, it was no small feat to get to this Witchwood. What the mage had failed to mention was that in order to even get to the area, he would need to pass the ruined farmlands that now hosted a battlefield. Once fertile soil had blackened and soured from too many fireballs and bloodshed, looking not unlike the very Blight itself. It made him wonder just how long it would be until the lands healed enough to grow again, for the magic to fade from the plants and soil, and the battleground to be forgotten.

The very trees themselves, which Fenris could only assume had been an extensive forest once, had become barren and cold. No leaves remained on the trees that stood, giving the wood a lonely, dead feeling to it. He doubted that the branches would be of any use for climbing or using as a form of cover. As such, he walked in the open, his ears twitching at every sound. There were none outside of the mage-templar fighting in the distance.

The critters of the area seemed to have vanished. No birds made their homes in the branches, no rabbits in the grounds, no squirrels fighting over food. He could hardly blame them for leaving, with the grounds dead and fighting not far off, there was little left for the critters.

Still, the silence was unsettling. It felt as if he were walking into an ambush, or a mass grave. Both seemed just as likely, with the sickly sweet smell of death clinging to the air like a sticky perfume. In some ways, it reminded him of Seheron, the island of constant war. While he wished desperately he could return, that his friends would be there waiting for him, the parallels were clear. Always an uncertainty, always a danger, always the smell of death and carnage in the air. It was both thrilling and horrifying.

He approached the clearing. Now, it truly reminded him of Seheron. Bodies lay scattered, some little more than fried skeletons with their flesh having been melted into the steel of their plate. Others lay in several pieces, scattered across the ground with only trails of black splatter to connect the torso to the hips. The smell was sickening - Decay, burnt flesh, and elfroot from spilled potions that had been a moment too late. 

He moved past them. There was nothing he could do for either of the two factions. His attention instead turned to the looming cave mouth. Fenris tilted his head as he studied the entrance. He doubted there would be much of value in the cave, with scavengers having likely picked it clean of anything valuable. Carefully, he stepped within, his eyes darting from side to side, as to see if the mage he was searching for lay within. 

He took a moment to look the corpses over. As far as he could tell, Anders had not been one of the corpses in the clearing, and neither was he out fighting with the rest of the rebels. With a bad habit of survival, Fenris couldn’t give him the benefit of the doubt that he had moved on without a thorough search. The embers at the fire pits were cold, though the pots, which looked like they would have held moldy, rotten food, were surprisingly empty and scrubbed clean. All of the bodies had been dragged from within the cave, and Fenris would pick up traces from healing magic having been used semi-recently, as well as something darker, something familiar that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand erect.

As carefully and quietly as he could manage, he approached the back wall of the cave. It took some effort to get there, having to step over ruined tents and shattered pottery. His hand reached out then, as to trace along the wall. The stones were cold, and sent a small spark up his arm. His expression would darken. They had been stacked with magic.

Illuminating the cave, Fenris’s marks would begin to glow. The elf, now ethereal and only partially within the living world, stepped forward. He was able to step through the rocks without any notable difficulty, with walking through walls being one of the first things he learned to use the marks for. The rock wall was thin, and before he could walk two strides, he was standing in the den of his prey. 

The cave continued, and he assumed that Anders would be found within. For now, however, he walked carefully around under the torchlight, eyeing what was before him. It seemed to be the mage’s living space. There was a bedroll, well used, a tarp to keep the cave water from falling on him, a cooking spill along with various pots and pans, and some semi-ruined books, some with burned spines and others with waterlogged pages. Sitting next to them, food. Loaves of bread suggested that Anders was able to move past the templars and into the villages if he so chose, and by the look of his supply of dried produce and meats, he would need to be making another trip to the market soon. The room held a distinct smell, one he remembered Hawke carrying every time he claimed to have slept well. 

The soil was cold under Fenris’s feet as he continued down the cave’s path. More torches illuminated the way at checkpoints, more than one might expect. He remembered some time in the past the mage mentioning that the dark and silence unsettled him, hence the reason for his clinic being so well-lit. He seemed to be attempting to recreate the same effect in his secret cave.

Finally, as he rounded the last corner, he would approach a lanky, hairy man in torn, filthy robes. He was hunched over a makeshift desk, with glowing stones - lyrium? - on the wood. He could hear the mage’s mutters, his Ferelden accent thick as he was blissfully unaware of the danger he was in.

The man that Fenris remembered seemed hidden under countless layers of grime and filth. He wouldn’t call the smell coming from the mage pleasant by any means, though it was not unbearable, not for Fenris, at least. There were no shortage of things he hated about the healer, his smell was never one of them. 

“Anders.” Fenris’s voice held more emotion than he had been expecting. It was trembling, with three years’ worth of emotion packed into the two simple syllables. There was anger, there was fear, resentment, and one he couldn’t quite place that sat at the base of his throat, feeling like a stone at the bottom of a river. 

For a brief moment, their eyes caught. Amber reflected the dancing lights of Fenris’s body as his markings activated. In those eyes, he could see many of the same emotions sparking to life as the mage’s hands raised. Time seemed to stop, if only for that moment, with flashes of the past bleeding into the present. He remembered those eyes, that expression, in the Gallows as Anders kept his gaze down to the white city streets, as not to attract the gaze of the templars. He remembered those eyes in the Hanged Man, when they crossed while Hawke was showering his lover with affection, and the quick, guilty flick away less than a moment after. And, he remembered those eyes in Kirkwall, when the city was alight and there was nothing but screams and smoke in the air, he saw the eyes of a man finally understanding just what he had done.

He watched those eyes grow wide as he did near, and with a sharp, painful jolt, he was brought back into the present. 

The magical rune below his feet practically exploded with a green energy. With a grunt, Fenris slammed against the cave wall, sending various supplies to the floor as a wave of dizziness and nausea overtook him. His feet burned from where he had stepped on the damned glyph. With the memories invading his thoughts, he had barely seen the man cast.

“Fenris, stop!” Anders’ broken voice echoed through the cave, his words sparking nothing in terms of sympathy or hesitation. Anders opened his mouth to shout again, though it was quickly caught by the elf as he sprung forward once more, his glowing fist lodging itself in the mage’s throat. The only sounds that came from the apostate were that of a choked struggle. 

Anders’s throat was wet, taunt as he struggled to breathe under the ghost elf’s grasp. He twitched and spasmed under the violent touch. Bony hands clasped onto Fenris’s arm, and the warrior’s eyes would narrow, growling as he turned around, his back to the table Anders had been working with. If Anders were to light Fenris on fire, he was going to ruin whatever it was he was working on while he was at it. 

Then, there was pain. It was a leaching feeling - Something being sucked out from him, taking his energy with him. The markings near Anders’ hands began to dim as he drew power from his enemy, and with a flash of rage, Fenris realized that his enemy was not casting a spell, but rather using his body, his activated markings, as a potion to regain his strength. Fenris’s arm tingled and went numb, his grip loosening as he screamed out with rage. He was nobody’s potion! He looked back without much thought, his aim to beat the mage with much more brutal tactics. 

With his eyes never leaving the mage’s, his free hand would reach behind him, searching blindly for anything he could use to bash the mage to unconsciousness. He fumbled around, his gauntlets leaving scratches in the wood, before he would finally find something. The surface was cool, and it felt to the touch as a hot pepper did to the tongue. It tingled and burned, and with a shout of surprise and fear, he dropped it onto the ground with a loud clank.

To his own horror, the blue glow that usually came from his markings twisted. For a brief moment, they were purple, before they turned a bright red. He let out a shout, his voice seeming disembodied and hardly his own. The only basis of comparison he knew was the voice of an abomination, yet it was a completely new evil. His grip loosened immediately, and the man he had been holding dropped to the ground with a grunt of impact, followed by a wave of desperate hacks and coughs. 

With a sharp turn, Fenris fell back against the table, looking to his hand, the one that had found the damned crystal. He could feel it pulsing, both his body and the crystal together. He felt a pull towards it - Not unlike the pulse he felt to Hawke or others he had come to care over. This was something worth protecting. He either didn’t notice or didn’t care when Anders found his footing after an unknown amount of time. He was far too consumed by the corrupted stone in his hands to give the mage any of his time.

Anders kept his eyes on his hunter, looking to the markings with no shortage of fear, “Fenris,” his voice croaked again before dissolving into coughs, not yet recovered from the handling it had received, “Fenris don’t touch that.” It was a vain hope, that Fenris would be strong enough to keep from the corruption, yet vain hopes seemed to be all that kept Anders going these days. 

Finally, the warrior looked up, his expression dazed for a moment, as if trying to process what had been sent to him. Once he did, however, his expression twisted, and a feral growl came from the man. Rolling onto the balls of his feet, he sprang forward like a hunter going for the kill - Not to Anders, but to the small piece of red lyrium.

Anders, not missing a beat, used what power he had absorbed from the elf. A green mist swirled around his hands and body, surrounding Fenris quickly and surprisingly painlessly.

His vision faded into a blinding light, and this thoughts scattered. In the dim chime of oncoming unconsciousness, he could just barely make out the murmurs of a prayer. 

And nothing that he has wrought shall be lost.


End file.
